Archive
08/22/08 - (1)
Topsy-Turvy If it weren't his strangest, weirdest awakening to date, It surely was right up there, What with the migration and rearranging of his fingers and toes.
To say that his discovery, as he threw off his covers and sheets, Was just terrifying, would be to mistake the case. It was a downright disgusting and nauseating sight;
"Macabre" might have better described the transmutation. At once, he erupted into shrieks of hysterical crying — Or was it maniacal laughter?
But when he covered his face, in shame, with his hands, He was instantaneously repulsed, Feeling his toes pressing against his perspirant forehead.
And when he tried to follow his well-worn path to the bathroom, To relive his painfully tumescent bladder, He stumbled, tripped, fell, expelling torrents of urine, on the carpet.
Curled up in a sullied ball, he wept with fierce indignation, Bellowed, as his toes grabbed the fingers of his left foot. How could this possibly be? It couldn't. It could;
Indeed, unequivocally, unambiguously, if disorientingly, It had been — it was. And by all appearances, the switch seemed to be permanent.
Suddenly, he realized that this new anatomical configuration Required not another "How could this possibly be?" But, rather, an aggressively proactive "What can I possibly do?"
Capable of crawling, he maneuvered his soiled, naked body Until he could reach the phone on his nightstand. But his toes couldn't depress the necessary buttons;
They kept speed-dialing Luigi's Pizza and Paulie's Porn Palace. For hours, he fumbled, until, by sheer will of dexterity, He taught the little finger on his right foot to dial 911.
Within ten minutes, the proximally stationed paramedic team Axed in his apartment door and gurneyed him to the ambulance, The crew of three visibly appalled, gasping,
Between paroxysms of uncontainable guffawing, As they expedited him, through triage, directly into the OR, Where a team of surgeons, anesthesiologists, nurses waited,
Energized, excited to tackle the logistical requirements Presented by the sui generis nature of his challenging anomaly. They too, to the man, woman, were overtaken by laughter.
Only he found nothing amusing in his topsy-turvey circumstance, So mortified was he, at the prospect of multiple amputations — Twenty in all, to be performed, so he assumed, simultaneously, now.
But upon awakening from the soothing effects of the sleeping gas, Thirty-six hours after the chief surgeon waved good-bye to him, He was as relieved as someone as loopy as he could be,
On seeing that the weary crew had decided, instead, To make only four amputations, at the wrists and ankles, Hoping that doing so would give him a far easier recovery.
After six months, his fingers and toes were functioning normally, Although he couldn't resist the nagging compulsion To clap with his feet and walk on his hands.
08/22/08 - (1)
|
|||
|
|||
